


Love Letters

by Daegaer



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Body Calligraphy, Consensual, F/M, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Teaching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-02
Updated: 2007-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-16 06:51:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8091877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daegaer/pseuds/Daegaer
Summary: Kanan loves Gonou's handwriting.





	

Gonou had a nice smile and kind eyes, green like glass seen under water. He was patient, so patient, and really truly loved teaching. Kanan watched him with the smaller children, never tiring of their piping voices asking questions, never looking bored at their shaky attempts to write. He praised every one of them, even when the characters they drew in crayon looked meaningless and stupid. She didn't know how he did it. She wasn't that fond of children herself, and felt sure she would snap at the class and reduce them to tears. Gonou never did. He was a _saint_.

She'd have to do something about that.

*

"You have beautiful writing," she said, watching Gonou mark homework.

"This? I'm just scribbling," he said, smiling up briefly.

He was lovely, she thought, digging her nails into her palms. "Teach me."

"What?"

"Teach me to have writing like yours." She wasn't taking no for an answer, she thought, stealing the pen. She sat at the table, Gonou standing behind her, his hand on hers, guiding carefully. She smiled at the touch of his fingers on hers, and smiled too to see the care with which he helped her draw the characters. "Look how good you are at teaching," she said.

"Oh! Wait! I have just the thing!" Gonou said, whirling away and running into his bedroom. She didn't have time to be disappointed before he was back, an ornate box in his hands. 

"Mr Zhou gave me this," he said. "It's a thank you for getting his son to actually read." 

Gonou laughed, not unkindly. Mr Zhou's son was older by far than the other students and far more dedicated to baseball than books. He'd been able to read no more than his name before Gonou came. Of course, it helped that the girl he mooned over was vocal in her desires for poetry before kisses. Gonou took out the brushes and inkstone from the box. 

"Lovely," he said. "And quite impractical. Ball point pens are much more use these days." He handed a fat brush over and went to rummage for paper to practice on.

Kanan watched him prepare the ink, then his hand was back on hers, moving the brush easily and smoothly in the ink and over the cheap paper he'd bought for the school. The lines were thick and shockingly black after the thin red pen he'd used for marking. 

"Write my name," Kanan said, watching the lines trail out. "And yours." Her heart beat faster as he swirled the brush, interlocking their names. "You could be a professional calligrapher," she said.

"Do I look like I'm ninety?"

She laughed. "Write 'love'." His hand, so warm on hers, was smudged with ink, the long fingers black at the tip. She felt dizzy, and leant back against him. It was as if the brush moved by itself in her hand. _I'm so happy we found each other,_ the characters flowed out, and her legs felt weak, heat pooling in her groin. _Me too,_ she made it write, clumsier and blockier than his script. "You need to let me set the pace," she said.

"Yes," he said, very quietly.

She turned in the chair to face him, and found him close, eyes bright and solemn. If she wasn't a coward, she thought. If he was anyone else -- if she wasn't his damn _sister_ . . . She took the brush and dabbed a wet, black spot on the very end of his nose. _Coward_ , she thought as he laughed, the moment broken. He leaned in and rubbed his nose deliberately on hers, still laughing, so she squirmed back and wrote her name on his face. He snatched the brush and wrote something on her face too, holding the brush out of reach when she tried for revenge. Kanan jumped up onto the chair, grabbing him with one hand to steady herself and to make sure he didn't run off with the brush, plucking it from his hand before he could make more than a surprised noise at having his face suddenly shoved into her stomach. The laughing tussle that followed ended with her half-lying on the table, Gonou leaning over her, one hand pinning her down, the other drawing tickly lines on her face and neck. Kanan wriggled and he leaned on her more firmly, dipping the brush in the ink and sliding it down her hair. He looked intent, focused, determined to get things right, just as he did in the classroom.

Kanan took the hand holding her down and pulled it across her body, up under her pulled-up dress, and pushed his fingers inside her underwear. Gonou froze in shock, and Kanan managed to put his fingers, inkstained and slender, inside herself. Neither of them moved. Then Gonou tried to get his hand back, and she held his wrist tightly, sitting up a little and marvelling at the feel of it.

"Your fingers are inside me," she said.

Gonou wrenched his hand free and staggered back. "Kanan -" he said, and covered his face with his hands.

Kanan stepped over to him. She couldn't undo it, she thought. The only way was forward. She pulled her dress over her head, and stripped away her bra and panties. "You have more of a canvas, now," she said, and pulled his brush hand down. He stared at her in horror, but didn't move, didn't look away.

"Kanan, you're my sister."

She put her hand over the front of his trousers. "Write 'desire'," she said. "Write 'no more loneliness'." 

The brush tickled her shoulder and trailed down her chest, Gonou watching it like he thought a ghost was writing. The tip circled her nipple, over and over, then he shook himself all over and stepped away. Before she could protest she saw he was simply getting more ink. Characters and swirling designs flowed from the brush out over her, her nipples blackened and full, her breasts covered in tiny words like kisses. She pulled his shirt off and wrote on his chest with her fingers, his name and hers, locked together, and let her hands drift lower, opening his trousers and taking out and coaxing his penis to full, warm, hardness. When he finally lifted her back on the table she just lay back on his earlier writing and opened her legs, watching him look and trace what felt like more words across her open flesh, her own wet warmth for ink. 

"Here," she said, and guided his fingers, holding his hand lightly so he didn't stray into less effective territory. He moved his fingers hard then and fast, tight circular movements that made her whimper, and looked her in the eyes as she came.

It wasn't as good as she'd hoped when he pushed inside her; it hurt at first and then felt oddly uncomfortable as he jerked his hips hard against her, groaning a little with each movement. She locked her legs around him and stroked his hair as he licked his words away from her breasts and kept him tight against her as he finished, liquid spilling into her as the ink had poured over her. 

They lay there, breathing hard, their bodies as bound together as their names on the torn and crumpled paper beneath them.


End file.
